may perhaps affirm of
Sandor that he was "all horse."

The steed, finding that Sandor did not fall off as he intended,
neighed once more, and pricking up his ears, made a start for the
gate, and then set off full gallop across the garden and over the
meadow, bearing his unhappy rider with him, who in despair let go the
bridle, and with both hands held fast by the saddle before and behind.

"My son, my son! he will be killed!" shrieked Aunt Zsuzsi, wringing
her hands; "will nobody save him?"

"Oh, never fear," said her worthy husband; "he is safe enough, depend
upon it, and a throw or two won't break his neck. Did you not see that
he spurred the horse purposely? Let us go on, he will soon overtake
us."

Whereupon the whips cracked, and the carriages proceeded at a quick
pace along the road; Aunt Zsuzsi calling to every person she met, to
ask if they had seen her son--nobody hearing her, of course, owing to
the noise of the carriages.

Having arrived at Uncle Berkessy's farm, where the harvest was going
on, they turned into a beautiful avenue planted on each side with
trees; here and there the wheat and barley were in stacks, the maize
was still ripening luxuriously, and the golden melon and citronil
peeping out among the stubble. But neither corn nor melons had any
charms for Aunt Zsuzsi--she could only think of her lost son; till
Mrs. Tallyai having suggested the probability of Sandor's having
returned home, the good lady became tolerably calm, and was able to
estimate the value of each plot of melons, and bushel of corn.

Having amused themselves some time watching the reapers, the party
drove home again. Aunt Zsuzsi's first word was to inquire for Sandor;
but nobody knew anything about him.

The good lady then gave vent to her lamentations. "I am undone!" she
exclaimed, "my son Sandor is lost for ever! One has been nearly stung
to death by bees, and now the other is killed by a mad horse. Oh! why
did we ever come here at all?--But it is all your fault, you old
fool," she continued, turning to her husband; "why did you want to
marry your son so young? Now he is gone for ever, and you may go after
him yourself, with your ass of a coachman. And you, sir," she added,
turning her wrath on Kalman, "how dared you let him mount your
confounded horse? where is he now, I ask you?--where is my son
Sandor?"

"And where is my horse?" exclaimed the poet, not less alarmed at the
idea of Sandor's having carried off his hor